


Transference

by SinfullyOffensive



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dominant Allura, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Freeform, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Headcanons Everywhere, Mild Smut, Protective Keith (Voltron), Psychological Trauma, Romance, Romantic Fluff, S1 & S2 verse only, Self-Acceptance, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro is Little Spoon, Written Before Shiro Came Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 16:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13721820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinfullyOffensive/pseuds/SinfullyOffensive
Summary: “Youcan be the next generation of elite astroexplorers!” The text vibrantly flashes across the screen, captivating the viewer with images of stars as vast and unaccountable as the grains of sand on a seashore. Tiny hands grasp the edges of the television stand, eyes wide with wonder and toy cars forgotten.Hecan be.And he will.He’s nine years old when he decides he wants to be an exploration pilot. He’ll hypothetically soar through the cosmos, save a hypothetical alien princess, and slay her hypothetical alien dragon-equivalent.His mind is set.»»-------------¤-------------««A self-indulgent AU ficlet focusing on flashbacks of Shiro's past, his PTSD, and established relationship with Allura.





	Transference

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This is an entirely self-indulgent AU, meaning most of this stuff is made up and not based on canon. History is probably wrong, ages are probably wrong, but I did my best with what Wiki gave me. This is VLD verse only. Timeframe: S1 - S2. 
> 
> Inspired by "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros and "your claws in me" by burlesquecomposer
> 
> Enjoy this trash story.

»»-------------¤-------------««

“ _You_ can be the next generation of elite astroexplorers!” The text vibrantly flashes across the screen, captivating the viewer with images of stars as vast and unaccountable as the grains of sand on a seashore. Tiny hands grasp the edges of the television stand, eyes wide with wonder and toy cars forgotten.

 _He_ can be.

And he will.

He’s nine years old when he decides he wants to be an exploration pilot.

He’ll hypothetically soar through the cosmos, save a hypothetical alien princess, and slay her hypothetical alien dragon-equivalent. His mind is set.

In the days following, he acquires a questionable number of cardboard boxes in his front yard and makes his very first spaceship. It’s ludicrously generic, but it’s his. And he flies it expertly. His mother is amused; his elderly neighbors, much less so.

“It is hardly appropriate to encourage such behavior, Mrs. Shirogane,” they say with their shrill voices and beady eyes. “He doesn’t even know what it _means_ to carry the weight of such a title!”

 _But he does_.

He swears he knows.

He flaunts off his cardboard spaceship, held sparsely together by worn duct tape to the young neighborhood cadets at a local space convention he begged his mother to take him to. He jogs around in an attempt to gain their attention, but none take him seriously…until one does. She places a hand on his head, a glint in her eye and a smirk on her face as she compliments him on his skillfully crafted toy shuttle. He’s excited – except he doesn’t want it to be a _toy_ shuttle. He wants a _real_ one – _like hers_.

Noticing his line of vision, she extends a hand and guides him into the spacecraft on display. In the cockpit, he’s stunned by the various amounts of flickering buttons. It’s absolutely _incredible_ , and his fingers twitch with the childish anticipation of what would happen should he press them _all_.

“Can I fly it?” he asks – or more so, begs.

And she throws back her head and laughs. “When you gain a few more feet on you and can fly a simulator without crashing, then come and talk to me,” she quirks, but he accepts the challenge.

And he does exactly that.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s twenty-five years old and he is no longer an exploration pilot; he’s no longer anything, he argues. The legendary pilot by the name of “Takashi Shirogane” is etched on a scarcely visited gravestone somewhere back on earth – long forgotten by everyone except a middle-aged, worn woman with a sanctuary of cardboard spaceships.

“The Black Lion is the decisive head of Voltron. It will take a pilot who is a born leader and in control at all times, someone whose men will follow without hesitation. That is why, Shiro, _you_ will pilot the Black Lion.” Allura tells him sternly—with finality, even—placing a lot of confidence in a man she just met twenty minutes prior. He’s tempted to disagree, to say he’s not _any_ of those things. He couldn’t even save his crew. Hell, he doesn’t even know if they’re _alive_. But she looks so damn resolute that he hesitates.  

“Are you sure you want _me_ to lead Voltron?” he asks after they’ve gotten rid of the Galra ship orbiting Arus and are finally alone.

She smiles at him warmly, rivaling the brightness of a star. “Of course. The way you commanded the others to move in the heat of battle was extraordinary! And with the way things have turned out, it is as if you were always _meant_ to lead Voltron.”

She says it so passionately that even for a small, fleeting moment…he almost believes her.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s fourteen years old and is packing the last of his bags into the trunk of a banged-up SUV, astonished that his _entire life_ could fit in as little as two bags. As he takes one last glance back at the house that built him, he wills himself not to cry and simply pretends he can’t wait to leave for the airport.

Shaky hands pull him to his mother’s soft chest and she buries her head in the curvature of his neck. He is all nervous limbs and a dry mouth, but he smiles until he hears a sob escape the woman clinging to him like a lifeline, effectively dropping his façade. With eyes clenched tight, he encases his arms around her. He never wanted – he doesn’t want to –

“I promise I’ll call you every day,” he pleads, hoping that his voice can sound more convincing than he feels. It’s all he’s got. It’s all he can do to appease her.

A mixture of a breathy chuckle and whimper hit his neck. “You forget, my dear boy, you’re awful at keeping promises,” she says, smacking his shoulder.

He jumps at the reprimand. “Well, lots of things are changing now. Maybe I can change that.”

But he doesn’t.

Often, the public phone merely ten steps from his dormitory remains untouched.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s twenty-five years old and he is the Leader of Voltron and he is _not_ ready to oversee four panicking children responsible for the fate of the universe. He believes he doesn’t have the capabilities to lead a team of emotionally unstable teenagers when he isn’t exactly a symbol of stability himself. Nonetheless, he’ll try his hardest. Patience yields focus…

“This can’t be real,” Pidge murmurs, a digitalized map opened in front of them of all the planets under Galra control. “This is a good chunk of the universe.” They gesture. “I’m telling you this…this can’t be real.”

“I don’t know—” Lance shrugs “—The giant, purple alien cats trying to kill us seem pretty real to me.” He glances at Hunk with a dubious expression, almost impressed. “What? You’re not going to cry again? You’ve been crying for hours!”

Hunk wipes a finger against his eye as if expecting tears to emerge. “Actually, uh—I think I’m all cried out.”

Pidge smirks. “What if I told you that we’re all out of space goo and are now left for dead in the void that _is_ space?”

He shoots them a glare, pointing an accusatory finger. “ _You_ are a terrible person, okay? Why would you even _say_ that? It was completely uncalled for.” His face slowly contorts, eyes brimmed with unshed years. “Yep, that did it. Oh my gosh,” he panics. “We’re going to be left for dead in space. So, so, very dead!”

“Guys!” Shiro stops them, annoyed. “Stop saying that. _No one_ is going to be left for dead in space.”

They must have sensed the hostility in his reprimand because they immediately quieted, the jest losing its shine. All three of them exchange pitying looks at the phrase “ _left for dead in space_ ,” possibly realizing it struck a nerve. He hates it when they give him that look, so he keeps his fists clenched tightly to stop the shaking.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s eighteen years old when he is officially recognized as one of the best pilots in the space exploration program. His increasing popularity earning him a large set of admirers. But it is somehow not quite what he thought it would be. Even in his prime, girls are still recognized, as Coran will describe them in his future, “ _as some specialized gender-linked form of a Weblum_.”

It is no longer the kisses from pretty girls he craves; it’s the freedom of exploration to planets and galaxies unknown, the kisses of hypothetical space princesses now a mere footnote, vehicles on his path to glory, witnesses to the awesomeness of his determination and ability. At this point, being a renowned pilot is not simply enough. He needs to go one step _further_ , work a bit _harder_.

He doesn’t have time for pretty girls or nervous babbling or blushing or broken hearts.

He’s got a universe to explore.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He is twenty-five years old, except he doesn’t feel twenty-five and not because his birthday happens to fall on a leap day. No – instead he feels like he’s sixteen, with a stomach full of a myriad of emotions fluttering about as he hesitantly, tentatively, and innocently explores the crevice of an unknown cadet’s mouth in a dark closet somewhere in the Galaxy Garrison. His hand unconsciously reaches for his lips, the feeling still present like it was just yesterday, only it’s _today_. And she’s not an unknown cadet; she’s a princess – an _alien_ princess. Someone who he is most certainly _not_ kissing, yet it makes a minor difference to the upbeat of his heart.

“You’re quite good with that hand, Shiro,” she says unwittingly, causing him to flounder in his training movements.

Lance, who was surprisingly resting by a certain red paladin, chokes on the strange space juice he was drinking. Hunk rubs circles on the poor paladins back. But Allura appears unfazed, innocent curiosity (and a mix of admiration) carving itself on her features.

For some baffling reason, he quirks an eyebrow and makes the situation _impossibly_ worse by saying, “I’ve had plenty of practice.” His ears, that are now tinged scarlet with belated understanding, hear various snorts from the young cadets behind him.

Coran is inclined to agree, which, damn it to hell, _doesn’t help at all_. “We can see that! It must be all that time alone in captivity that allowed you to master such a _firm grip_!”

His innocent statement has Lance bawling and roaring, Hunk covering his ears, Keith with more questions than answers, and Pidge waggling their eyebrows. Shiro wants to be angry because he doesn’t have _time_ for this, not with a threat like Zarkon on the rise. But the sound of their laughter feels familiar.

It begins to feel like home.

»»-------------¤-------------««

“I need you to keep a careful watch on me when we’re out there on the field,” He tells Keith fervently one night, who pauses in sharpening his blade.

His eyes narrow. “Shiro, we talked –”

“—No,” his tone is firm, but he wavers. “You need to keep a close eye on me. I can’t freeze up like that again – not with so much on the line. If I ever choke up again – if I show any sign of weakness again…then you need to lead –”

The slamming of a knife silences him. “It won’t come to that,” he argues, impatiently. Not because, Shiro suspects, that he doesn’t want to take the role of leadership, but because he doesn’t want him to stop fighting. But he needs to take measures. He _can’t_ fail them.

He buries his head in his hands. “I’m not fit to lead Voltron – not like this…”

Keith stands abruptly. “Yes, you are! Shiro – it needs to be you. _It has to_.”

The pleading look on his face causes Shiro to nod tersely.

But he wishes it didn’t have to be.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s twenty-three years old and they’re debriefing him on his first long-distance mission – the Kerberos mission, the furthest he’s ever traveled. His thin senior officer uniform somehow manages to feel heavy on his shoulders, but he tries not to worry.

When they hand him the classified file, he doesn’t think much of anything as he tucks it under his arm. Later, he will think of it as his biggest regret, that he should not have even reached for the file. And even more in the future, he will think of the moment in various colorful terms, but now…he doesn’t think at all. It’s what he was meant to do. It’s his duty and his path to glory. His path to alien princesses and dragon-equivalents.  

But he’s so easily impressionable. _He still doesn’t know_. Even if he’s convinced himself that he does.

He doesn’t know what it means.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s twenty-five years old and just got thrown out of a wormhole into _quiznak-knows-where_ and is certain that he’s cheating death by now because he’s somehow _alive_ and trapped in a giant magical space lion, with a wound on his side and in desperate need of a vacation and some alcohol.

But right now, he’ll settle for a way off this damned planet and a bandage for his aching wound.

He presses a hand to his side, looking for something to patch up the wound and take care of this body that refuses to take care of him back. He wills himself to get up and reach higher ground. He needs to find his teammates, not just to make sure they are safe, but for his own sanity.

Being alone with these thoughts is a dangerous thing. It means thinking, and thinking means darkness – it means _remembering_.

When he hears Keith’s voice, the darkness subsides and hides somewhere unsuspecting. It will come back later to keep him company.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He is twenty-four years old and his crew is probably dead and everyone in his cell block is dead and he wishes he was dead too and _he doesn’t want to remember this_.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s twenty-five and he bolts upright in bed, panting heavily yet again for the seventh time that week. His sheets are damp with either sweat or tears – he can’t quite tell. He’ll try to convince himself that he’s fine, even if he feels terrible. Even if he just wants this to be over – he’s _fine_.

As the sounds of machines and pained screams fade into his dreams, he takes a moment to catch his breath, to remember that he’s no longer in a Galra prison. He’s in the Castle of Lions. He is safe.

With a huff, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and allows his head to fall into the palms of his hands. At the sound of metal thumping against flesh, he looks up at his prosthetic – glares at it, even. The room shifts around him and instead of feeling like a sanctuary, it feels no safer than a prison cell.

He wonders what time it is, in the expanse of space everything seems blurred together, but he only hopes that no one is up. Because then he’ll have to be a person again – be a leader. He’ll have to put on armor that feels heavier than it should, pretend to be strong, eat a little bit of mysterious space goo, at least. And he isn’t sure he’s quite ready yet.

They can’t know. It’s no one’s business but his own, or at least until— _if,_ he reminds himself—it reaches the point where it affects Voltron. He doesn’t need any more pitying looks – he pities himself more than enough for the five of them.

 _They can’t know_ , but the room feels so damn small.

»»-------------¤-------------««

“Does it hurt?” she asks tenderly, startling him from his reverie. The stars beyond the large window in the atrium of the castle dance across her skin and he shouldn’t think that her concerned expression looks ethereally gorgeous, but it does. He wants to be snark and ask her to elaborate because, _damn it_ , everything hurts, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Her lips purse at his silence, and she gestures to his hand. “Does it hurt?” she repeats.

He isn’t quite sure how to answer, but he tries. “It doesn’t hurt – not exactly. It feels hot when I use it, like someone holding a heat gun close to my body.” Laughter tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Though, I’m sure the Galra we fight against would agree if feels little more than _hot_.”

“I can’t argue that.”

“It just—it feels strange, really,” he says, flexing his fingers. “Like it’s still there and feels the same, only its covered by a thick sweater if that makes any sense?”

She nods reluctantly, accepting his confession. “Shiro, if there’s anything I can do –”

 “—No—Uh, I—no. There isn’t, but thank you, princess.” He smiles, hoping it’ll reassure her. But it feels flat even to him. “I’m more concerned about how you’re holding up,” he finds himself asking.

“I—” She’s puzzled, at first, then defensive. “Do I not seem like I can handle—”

Shiro chuckles. “I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling _anything,_ princess. It’s just—with everything that’s happened since you awoke—your father, your home—it can’t be easy.”

She softens, a blush searing across her cheeks. “Right. Sorry.” She sighs. “Other than the various death threats from Galra soldiers and being a constant target of the enemy, I’m doing well.”

“You’re rather good-natured about death threats and the enemy trying to blow the ship up.”

She shrugs and perches herself down next to him, shoulders nearly touching. “It makes things a little easier.”

He can’t argue with that.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He is twenty-four years old and his crew is probably dead and everyone in his cell block is dead and he wishes he was dead too and they throw him back into the arena, everything sounding like a movie shot underwater. His next opponent is cat-like female, or at least she appears so, with wild eyes. Anyone could tell she’s cried so much because her tears have formed permanent imprints in her cheeks.

He tries to reason with her, but she won’t listen. Her screams are on the brink of madness and she slashes wildly for her life with one motive – to _kill_ him. And he’s tempted to let her, but then his heart pumps a little faster and all he sees is red. Everything is red.

He catches her off guard and disarms her, using her own blade and diving it into her chest, twisting it for good measure. The red clears and all he see’s is a girl – just a girl, gazing at him with dead, empty eyes and whispering, “ _Thank you, Champion_.”

_He doesn’t want to remember this._

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s twenty-five years old and he’s exhausted himself from training. Sprawled out on the floor, with limbs numb, and he likes it that way. The training room is surprisingly quiet.

It astonishes him that a castle so big can be so damn quiet, so quiet that everyone knows exactly who it is who screams in agony every night, but no one mentions it. And for that, he’s grateful.

“Have they stopped?” Keith asks him one day after training, having noticed the lack of nightly screams.

“I haven’t had them in weeks,” he lies, steeling his expression because no—they haven’t stopped. They’re worse more now than ever, but he wants them to stop worrying about him. He wants them to stop looking at him with such pity.

So, he’s stopped sleeping.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s sitting up against a wall adjacent to the large window in the atrium of the castle, watching the constellations they travel past and wondering why space is still so comforting to him. Allura is curled up by his side, knees to her chest and silently watching the abyss with him. It’s become a ritual, a silent agreement between the two of them.

And finds his hands shaking again, and he wonders what he would lose if he lost control. “ _Do you think a monster like you could ever be a Voltron paladin?”_ the words echo fresh in his mind and he finds that he can’t give a proper retort.

He couldn’t give himself a proper retort. His prosthetic reaches for Allura’s hand and despite the chill, she doesn’t pull away.

She accepts him, even the worst sides of him. And he finds that’s all he needs.

 

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s ten years old and he finds himself trapped under the weight of a large cardboard space shuttle, his mission thwarted by an alien monster that unexpectedly shot him out of the sky. He needs to untangle is limbs. He needs to reach the princess.

He tries to heave the shuttle off himself with little success and gives a grunt of frustration. A chiming giggle reaches his ears and his mother pulls up the box over her head, her cardboard crown falling off in the process.

“Mom! Princesses _aren’t supposed_ to save knights!” he argues, pouting. But his anger is forgotten when she scoops him up in her arms and onto her lap.

She sighs contently. “Oh, darling,” she says with a smile. “You’ll learn that not every princess needs saving. There will come a time where the one who needs saving might be _you,_ and you’ll find that you wouldn’t mind a pretty princess coming to your rescue.”

At ten, it sounds blasphemous.

But in the future, he discovers that he indeed doesn’t mind it quite so much.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s twenty-five years old and he’s the Leader of Voltron and she is the Princess of Altea and he feels like he’s undeserving of her lips, like he’s tainting her as he kisses her. But there’s a part of him that can’t seem to _care_ – a part of him that is still sixteen in a dark closet at the Garrison.

He pulls back slightly, a little overwhelmed because she’s perfect – except she’s not. She hotheaded and ambitious and beautiful but that makes her perfect. _Because it’s her_ , the princess who would plague his childish dreams and his teenage dreams much less innocently. She is both, at once, everything he wants and _nothing_ like he expects.

He pulls away to calm himself down, but she won’t have it. She chases his mouth with hers insistently. And the emptiness is gone; he feels so full.

Maybe he deserves this.

»»-------------¤-------------««

 

He is twenty-four years old and his crew is probably dead and everyone in his cell block is dead and he’s sure that he’s dead too because he’s home. Not at the Garrison, but _home_ – with his pile of cardboard spaceships and the sounds of his mother singing.

He squeezes his eyes shut, a silent prayer that when he opens them again it will be real – his mother sitting on the porch steps waiting for him with a smile on her face like always because _her son is home_ …except he’s not. When he opens his eyes again, the image is replaced with a fresh corpse leaning against the adjacent wall of the cell – another victim, another mark on the wall.

She’s not real. She’ll never be real again. He finds that he’s slowly coming to terms with that and he hates it. His been trapped in this endless loop of insanity for so long he begins to lose count of the days. Weeks feel like months, months feel like years. He’s stopped trying to keep count because it could be longer and it’s pointless. Maybe the next match will be his last. Maybe he’ll die. He hopes he’ll—

 _He doesn’t want to remember this_.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s twenty-five and glancing out at the empty void of space among the clusters of xanthorium crystals which mark the grave of a fallen comrade. The dark memories push to the front of his mind like a cabinet that refuses to remain closed no matter how many times he keeps pushing it shut...

He rubs his temples, weary.

“Do you have some time?” He raises his head to see Allura walking up to him with caution. Her hand reaching out to him, a silent apology for her coldness moments before. He’s still upset, but he also strangely thinks the gesture is endearing.  

“I’m afraid that being the head of Voltron doesn’t leave me with much time,” he says, but he entwines their fingers anyway and pulls her to his chest.

“Then, I’m glad to have convinced you otherwise.” She presses a little closer, her body warm and soft against his.

Resting his forehead against her own, he hums. “Princess, I think you underestimate the power you have over me. You could pretty much convince me to do _anything_.”—He hears her inhale, deep and slow, before saying— “Maybe even try to turn Lance into a gentleman.”

Her hand thumps against his chest and she let’s out a rather undignified snort. “That is _way_ too difficult a task and I wouldn’t dare ask so much of you.” She bends her head back to look into his eyes, and he’s certain that she doesn’t even realize how addicting she is—her touch, her voice, her scent.

“Well, the offer still stands,” he whispers and moves his head to capture her mouth with his own. Her mouth immediately goes to work, parting without hesitation or maidenly shyness. It was hot and intense and full of an almost electrical awareness that had been between them since they first met. Pulling her flush against him, he sank into the kiss, forgetting that they were standing in the middle of the castle, vulnerable to anyone who might walk in.

But he didn’t care – part of him tired of hiding. He needs this moment to be his. For once in his damn life, he needs this to be _his_.

With a quivering, content sigh, she parts from him with her head falling against his shoulder. “The paladins must think that I am no better than the Galra with the way I acted today.”

He pulls her away at arms-length. “Please tell me this assumption is based on more than ‘The paladins were trying to steer clear of me.” She tries to look away, but he catches her chin.

“Allura—”

“—I let my hatred toward the Galra cloud my judgment over, what could have been, valuable information to defeating Zarkon,” she cuts him off indignantly. “My duty as Princess of Altea is to ensure that the Paladins of Voltron are able to defeat Zarkon by whatever means necessary. It’s just that simple.”

Shiro was tempted to roll his eyes. “Oh, yes. Because they should know it is such an _easy_ task, reversing ten-thousand years of enemy occupation from the _entire_ universe.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She suddenly seems so small.

“My point is that, to them, I must look like I have no idea what I’m doing.” She sinks to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself.

At this, he does roll his eyes. He kneels in front of her, smiling lovingly. “Princess, I’m sure if you took a moment to look around, you’d realize that _none_ of us really have any idea what we’re doing.”

Her eyes are wide. “Are you—Are you trying to _comfort_ me?”

“That depends, really. Is it working?”

She shoots him a glare, but her mouth quirks to the side. “More than it should, I’m afraid.”

“Then, yes. I’m trying to comfort you.” This earns him a smack, and he suddenly doesn’t want this moment to end.

»»-------------¤-------------««

He is twenty-four years old and his crew is probably dead and everyone in his cell block is dead and they cut off his arm and he wishes he was dead too –

No. He’s twenty-five. _He’s twenty-five – twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five – This isn’t real!_

_This nightmare can’t be real—_

»»-------------¤-------------««

“So, you and Allura.” It’s more of a statement than a question. But it shouldn’t even be a statement he has to hear because he’s certain his room has a door for a reason.

“If you’re intending to put me through the wringer with the next few words that come out of your mouth, can it at least wait until I get _out_ of bed?” He runs a hand through his hair tiredly, feeling every weary creak as he sits up.

Keith’s brooding, as usual. “I just wanted to know if you’re okay with that. After all, she is a—”

“—Princess?”

He shrugs, tucking a hand on his hip. “That too.”

Shiro looks up, noticing that Keith is shifting. He’s been off ever since the Blade of Marmora, and suddenly it clicks. “Keith, if you think I’m going to suddenly change my mind about Allura just because she has pointy ears, super strength, and can change the structure of her body to anything she wants, then I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

He seems to find comfort in this and nods.

“Good.”

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s fifteen years old and he’s going to be a fighter pilot cadet and he should be happy, but he can’t seem to shake the fact that he’s in a strange room, lying in a foreign, uncomfortable bed, and trying to fall asleep to the lullaby of some unknown cadet’s steady breathing. He looks at a picture of home by his bedside and begins to wonder if this is what he wants. He curls into himself and tries not to cry because he doesn’t know – _this is what he wants_.

Except it’s not, and he’s not fifteen but twenty-five, and he’s no longer a fighter pilot cadet or an infamous exploration pilot, and he doesn’t even really miss it. He doesn’t miss it because he’s tired of lying awake in bed, tired from a day of physically fighting a war that he ends up too tired to fight the war going on inside his own head.

He never asks for much, but when he does, it’s something that his mind can never give. And that’s the reason behind the war. It’s just his own mind asking for something he can’t give. It’s just him asking to come back into his body, asking to regain control, and it’s his own mind telling him, _“You’re not welcome here!”_

So, he stays up in the atrium of the castle, staring at the stars and hoping that if he stares long enough, they’ll give him the strategy he needs to win. 

»»-------------¤-------------««

He’s the Leader of Voltron and she’s the Princess of Altea, but as she sinks her hands into his hair, guiding him to her, they’re just two selfish people made from the same cosmic dust. This is what he needs, he insists. This is the answer. His princess – all selfishly _his_.

He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her flush against him, so he can kiss her easier. He feels like he’s descending into madness, but at the same time, it feels like the sanest thing he has ever done. When their innocent exploration is over, he finds himself growing more confident, bolder, and his tongue beginning to probe the seam of her lips, then running along the length of hers when she allowed entrance. Each of their need for dominance making them competitors with their teasing hands, sucking fervently at the intruder's tongue and her teeth nipping his lower lip as he pulls away to catch his breath.

Allura finds that she is becoming impatient and using her strength, she shoves him against the wall, swallowing the grunt that escapes him with her mouth. His fingers dig into her hips, pulling her ever closer as he braces one leg between hers, her dress feeling soft and silky against his palms, yet he finds himself wondering what it would be like to rip it off.

As he catches her dazed expression when they part, he grins, a flare of masculine pride rising in his chest and he dares to look smug. “Shall I escort you to your room, princess?” Her knowing look causing him to blush and hastily add, “And possibly leave you there for the evening. You know—like a perfectly, gentlemanly paladin should.”

Her laugh is airy, and she traces a finger along his jaw. “Mmm, I was actually hoping to convince you to stay for the evening.”

He blinks rapidly and relief floods him as he bends to kiss her lips, just one more time. “That won’t take much convincing, I’m ashamed to admit.”

“Good.”

»»-------------¤-------------««

They fumble down the hallway to Allura’s quarters a little less than gracefully and never pulling more than a few inches apart. She is, as with everything else, a little more than impatient as she tries to find the button to open the door to her chambers, so Shiro is more than willing to assist her, hands guiding her own against the wall as the door opens and they stumble into the room.

Her bed is enormous and plush, fit for a princess, and she wastes no time in pushing him down against it before lifting her dress above her knees and mounting him, tongue delving deep into his mouth. After paying a little more attention to his lips, she lifts her head unexpectedly and asks, “You have plenty more of these shirts, correct?”

He’s too dazed to answer her coherently, at first. “I—uh, yeah—You provided me with more than enough—”

“Good—” she tells him, tightening her hands at the fabric around his neck “—because it’s in the way.”

Before he can even protest, he feels a large rip and his uniform is being tossed at the foot of the bed. And for a while, he suddenly feels self-conscious as he sees her eyes grow wide with something border on lust and sadness at the scars marking the expanse of his chest. As he reaches for her hips to pull her off, her scorching fingertips sear across his skin and she whispers in the most lovingly way, a reassurance he never knew he needed, “ _You’re beautiful_.”

Encouraged by her boldness, his hands leave her hips and find the buttons of her dress, somehow now considering her annoyingly fully clothed. His fingers work effortlessly to unclasp the blasted layers of her clothing and as each article is tossed aside one by one, he discovers that it’s _his_ turn to groan impatiently. Allura’s laugh feels warm against his neck.

He glares at her clothing as if it is personally offending him. “I have a cybernetic arm capable of energy emissions powerful enough to cut through metal, yet _heaven forbid_ I try to undo a button, ” he murmurs into her hair and her hands catch his, making them unravel the buttons of her dress much slower now – as if they have all the time in the world, as if Zarkon isn’t trying to destroy universe, as if they ever have the possibility of staying alive.

Her assistance makes the task seem incredibly easy and before he knows it, she’s left bare above him – not even a shift under her garments. He’s starting to feel like this was planned, but he doesn’t protest. He skims one hand up her stomach to cup her breast, mapping her body like a constellation he never wants to forget. Because he indeed never wants to forget.

 _He wants to remember this_.

As she arches into him, his fingers tighten around her breast, pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She moans into his mouth, feeling the pull of it go straight to her core, filling her with liquid heat. His thumb scrapes across her nipple, over and over, sending shocks of awareness through her every time.

Wanting to feel _more_ of him, wanting him to be _closer_ , she stops his movements and unbuckles his pants and skillfully removes them in one sweep, sending them a few feet away to a pile on the floor. Then, with confidence she wasn’t aware she possessed, she reaches out to flatten her palm against his length, kneading it through the last article in her way. He sucks in a sharp breath at her touch, pushing up against her palm urgently, and she takes the hint, watching him with bright, intense eyes as she frees him and kisses somewhere lower than he ever expected.

“Allura— _ngh_ —” his gasp turns into a curse when he feels the first brush of her mouth and his eyes flutter shut as she begins to taste him with deliberate leisure. He always expected this to be urgent and rushed, but she was more than content to unravel him slowly. But he’s losing control.

He tangles his fingers in her hair and tugs rather urgently, but she ignores him. With the heat building up inside him, he begins to thrust his hips ever so slightly, almost tentatively, but she won’t have it, her strength stilling him as her mouth encases his cock completely, sheathing it to the hilt.

He exhales in a rush, legs beginning to tremble with frustration, wanting to thrust mercilessly into her mouth. Sensing his distress, she releases him, trailing kisses up his stomach and chest until she captures his lips roughly, earning a noise of approval as he urges her to straddle him. She more than willingly obeys, about to make some sort of quirk about his hastiness, but when she feels the hard length of him prodding at the sensitive entrance of her sex, she finds that she can’t think of much at all. Before he could press up against her, he hesitantly asks, “Allura, can I –”

“ _Quiznak_ , yes,” she moans, kissing him with the barest touch of her lips.

He laughs and runs his hands down under her thighs, drawing her up higher to his core before easing her down until he’s inside her, the mere feel of him filling her and stretching her is enough to take her breath away. Her voice echoes off the walls at the sheer pleasure as her sex adjusts to his shaft. Making an incomprehensible noise, he digs his fingers around her ass and growls, turning over so now he is hovering above her.

She locks her ankles at the small of his back and rocks into him unhurriedly, fingers tracing along his cheekbones and into his hair as his thrusts into her slow at first, burying his face into the crook of her neck. As she scrapes her nails down his back, arching into him, he becomes more rough and desperate, shifting her angle and falling into a faster rhythm – each thrust causing his name to fall off her lips like a prayer with some words in Altean that he can’t quite make out.

When she feels his cool, nimble fingers find her clit, she feels her climax, beginning to scream as he drives into her hard over and over again, toes curling as she rocks a little faster to match his rhythm. And with one last groan escaping him, she feels his orgasm crash into hers, riding it out until she’s drained every drop of him.

Utterly drained, they tangle up in her sheets, his head laying on her breast and listening to the rapid beat of her heart as she cocoons herself around him. He turns his face toward her and kisses the skin just below her collarbone, whispering, “You’re perfect, you know?”

She laughs, bright and fearless, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, then manages to reply, “As are you.”

He curls up against her, feeling content – so content that he’s almost afraid of it. But as she gently strokes the locks of his hair, he finds himself lulling off into the first dreamless sleep he’s had in months.

_He wants to remember this._

»»-------------¤-------------««

He is twenty-four years old and his crew is probably dead and everyone in his cell block is dead and he wishes he was—

He’s twenty-five years old. He’s no longer an exploration pilot and that’s just fine.

He’s found his princess. He can keep _this_ crew alive.

He’s made a home.

»»-------------¤-------------««

 

He’s twenty-five years old, but he’s also twenty-four, twenty-three, eighteen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, ten, and, somewhere underneath all that, nine. He’s nine years old and he wants to be a space exploration pilot. He wants to venture into unknown worlds. He wants to save alien princesses. He wants to slay giant, alien dragon-equivalents. He wants to save the universe – but it’s a little more complex than simply finding an easier way to fold a cardboard box into different patterns.

It will involve a lot of near-death experiences, a lot of crazy teenage antics, alien princesses that can save themselves, a _disappointing_ lack of space dragons, and something involving a giant magical space lion that forms an even larger robot with various questionable weapons.

But nine-year-old Shiro – well, he doesn’t quite know that yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. If you didn't, thank you for reading anyway. Special thanks to allebiouqruop for edits.


End file.
